


Sense

by StainedGlassDreams



Series: Home Actually Home [4]
Category: Black Widow (Comics), Winter Soldier (Comics), buckynat - Fandom, winterwidow - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Love, Memory, Sucker for love, buckynat - Freeform, soul mates, winterwidow - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-21
Updated: 2017-08-21
Packaged: 2018-12-18 03:10:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11865420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StainedGlassDreams/pseuds/StainedGlassDreams
Summary: Memory is a feeling. It's a thousand different places and feelings, and a map that always somehow leads back to this moment. To her.





	Sense

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this incredible piece, performance and video of Chopin https://youtu.be/wiVFiBdFVq0
> 
> Thank You for reading :)

Memory isn't something you can describe.

He sees his Mother, brushing her auburn hair. The bristles going in between the strands in such a way it made it look fluid.  
The sound, like Autumn leaves falling through the branches.

It's a feeling. It's

-noise as he hears his platoon shouting. Gunfire and tanks and blue beams that no one could figure out except the horror in retreat as it zapped them where they stood. Like something out of a comic page, or a sci-fi film he saw in the movies.

-It's

\- taste of Valerie's lips in the theater, as Bugsby Berkely danced in the background, he doesn't even remember the film. Just the flicker of the black and white colors against her face, caressing one hand upon her cheek and leaving it there as she sighed-

Sight-

\- looking at Steve, how he always felt now personified. He didn't have to protect him anymore, it was the other way around. He was the broken one, the bent out of shape and never the same person that was there before the war.  
All that he had seen, all that he had felt. He tastes the bourbon and he doesn't feel anything but the bitter and cough medicine taste that comes with it.  
But he can't ever let him suspect, or know that. Because that's just not how brothers are. Because all he sees is a small, big hearted stubborn asshole who's desire to do the right thing outranks most soldiers here.  
And he has to make sure that when Steve looks, he sees the same strong, stubborn kid that looked out for him. Even if it kills him.

It's every sense. Even the unmentioned one. The -

\- gut instinct, it's all back. Every time he sees her. You don't remember forgetting freedom but you do, and it tastes bitter, like cough medicine.  
She tastes like everything he doesn't feel he deserves to have, feels like home. Feels like an extension of himself, spilling out and overflowing but accepted. He's broken and bruised but he feels whole with her.  
And as he climbs the open window that he knows she's left open on purpose, on a foolish hope, on a risk that could expose them both to a one way ticket to Siberia, he knows what they're doing is wrong. What they're being told to do is a lie. This is not home. It never was. And he'll die before they lose each other.

You can't describe memory because it's beyond words.  
He can't describe the sound of his Mom's brush through her hair, the feeling of minute panic when he hears his Father checking to make sure he's in his bed asleep and not escaped through the stairwell to meet Lady (which he will later).  
Nor can he describe the horror he hides under all of it. From Russia, Azzano, Siberia. He can't describe how his stomach roils like the Baltic Ocean whenever he thinks about it, and how he pushes it so far back, it makes an attic look modest.  
He can't describe how war smells and feels and tastes and he can't describe what it's like kissing a date in a movie theater to a black and white musical. They're two different tastes and yet all the same because one leads back to the other in some sick, convuluted way.  
And he can't describe how Nat's skin felt when he first kissed her. How he felt, after decades, like himself again. How it felt to get that back, and how grateful he was.  
He can't describe how it feels when they escaped to each other, the look in her eyes of comfort, of peace. That they both had seen, and done, horrible things that they would never be forgiven for. That they were broken and bruised but God, he knows he'll never love anyone like this again. He knows he'll fight armies and hell and Karpov to the death if it means fighting for her. With her.

He can't describe memory, and how he's smiling as she's walking with him through Central Park, and her eyes have a small glint in them as they walk alongside each other.  
How she smiles without doing so when the rain hits her umbrella, or patterns briefly against her skin. How her lips feel on a cold winter day, and how waking up to her is like being reborn every time he turns to her.  
How losing each other over and over hasn't made them fearful, it's made them stronger.

Memory will tell you the fear, the detachment and numbness that occured on the moon. How he felt the universe had shattered into two, how he would give his life right then so she could have his. How his humanity crumbled. How loud silence was, and the world had suddenly gone dark.  
Memory will tell you that he can name you random show tunes in the first note, and how each reminds him of the life before all this.

She smiles at him as she twirls her spaghetti as if it's ribbons or a gun to be loaded, and a small piece of the sauce he made gets on her snow soft cheek. "What're you thinking about?" She asks, tank top and sweatpants on their couch.  
He wants to both kiss and make love to her at this moment. "Nothing." He says, wiping off the small dot of meatsauce.  
She puts her hand softly on top of his, memory flickering back to a black and white theater. She looks at him and knows his reply was a lie, her green emerald city eyes looking into his, searching for anything he's keeping from her. 'Why do you even try', whispered without even opening her lips.  
"Just how you make spaghetti sauce sexy." He semi-caves, still hiding the corniness of the thoughts he's just had.  
"Idiot." She jokes playfully.  
"Always." He says, kissing her.

Memory captures this moment. The moon may be theirs. And so's every second they have.


End file.
